E. A. POE’S
DEATH AND BURIAL

THE spiritual improvisation of Mr.
Harris, some time since published in the TELEGRAPH,
wherein a description of the dying experiences of the lamented author of “The
Raven” were given, has naturally enough awakened a fresh interest in the facts
of his death and burial; and we therefore give from the New York Women’s
Temperance Paper (a spirited little monthly, edited by Mrs. Mary C. Vaughan),
the following statement by Dr. Snodgrass, of this city — formerly of Baltimore
— where Mr. Poe entered the Spirit-world:

On a chilly and wet November afternoon, I received a note, stating
that “a man, answering to the name of Edgar Allan Poe,” who claimed to
know me, was at a drinking house in Lombard-street [[Lombard Street]], Baltimore, in a
state of deep intoxication and great destitution. I repaired immediately to the spot.
It was an election day. When I entered the bar-room of the house, I instantly
recognized the face of one whom I had often seen and knew well, although it wore an
aspect of vacant stupidity which made me shudder. The intellectual flash of his eye
had vanished, or rather had been quenched in the bowl; but the broad, capacious
forehead of the author of “The Raven,” as you have appropriately
designated him, was still there, with a width, in the region of ideality, such as few
men have ever possessed. But perhaps I would not have so readily recognized him, had I
not been notified of his apparel. His hat — or rather the hat of somebody else,
for he had evidently been robbed of his clothing or cheated in an exchange — was
a cheap palm-leaf one, without a band, and soiled; his coat of commonest alpacca, and
evidently “second hand;” and his pants of grey-mixed cassimere, dingy, and
badly fitting. He wore neither vest nor neckcloth, if I remember aright, while his
shirt was sadly crumpled and soiled. He was so utterly stupified with liquor, that I
thought it best not to seek recognition or conversation, especially as he was
surrounded by a crowd of drinking men, actuated by idle curiosity rather than
sympathy. I immediately ordered a room for him, where he could be comfortable until I
got word to his relatives — for there were several in Baltimore. Just at that
moment, one or two of the persons referred to, getting information of the case,
arrived at the spot. They declined to take private care of him, assigning, as a
reason, that he had been “very abusive and ungrateful on former occasions, when
drunk;” and advised that he be sent to a hospital. He was accordingly placed in
a coach, and conveyed to the Washington College Hospital, and placed under the care of
the competent and attentive resident physician of that institution. So insensible was
he, that we had to carry him to the carriage, as if a corpse. The muscles of
articulation seemed paralyzed to speechlessness, and mere incoherent mutterings were
all that were heard.

He died in the hospital, after some three of four days, during which
time he enjoyed only occasional and fitful seasons of consciousness. His disease, as
will have been anticipated, was mania-a-potu — a disease whose finale is
always fearful in its maniacal manifestations. In one of his more lucid moments, when
asked by the physician whether he would like to see his friends, he exclaimed:
“Friends! My best friend would be he who would take a pistol and blow out my
brains, and thus relieve me of my agony!” These were among his last words.

So much for the manner of the death of Edgar A. Poe. It has not been
called forth by anything in your “Women’s Temperance Paper,” but in
other papers that have published a statement hinting that he had died “by his
own hand.”

Now for the manner of his burial:

The remains of the author of “The Raven” do not
“lie moldering in a corner of the Potter’s Field, at Baltimore.” The
truth, as I remarked, is bad enough, and discreditable enough to his
relatives, not to say the city where he died. He was interred in an old Presbyterian
burying ground in Green [[Greene]] Street, which has not been much used for many
years. On a portion of it a church has since been erected, but not over his grave. In
the removal of the dead, which will sooner or later take place, it is quite probable
the bones of “Poor Poe” will be collected among the remains of the
friendless and the unknown, and removed beyond recognition, for nothing but a couple
of pine boards were placed at his grave, in lieu of grave-stones. But, worse than
this, and far more discreditable to relate, there were no planks placed over the
coffin, as is usual in all “decent burials,” and the earth was thrown
directly upon it!

This was a most harrowing circumstance to my feelings. The impression
of it has never been erased from my memory. Even now, as I write this hurried letter,
I seem to hear the clods rattling upon that unprotected coffin, in contemptuous
derision of the transcendent genius of its occupant! It must have been equally so to
the two relatives, the single other attendant, besides the officiating clergyman, who
was himself a relative of the deceased, and who, with the undertaker, the two coachmen
and myself, made up the entire funeral cortége.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Notes:

Mary C. Vaughan was a worker for the Daughters of Temperance.

The Poe Society is indebted to Michael Powell for a black and white photograph
of the original article.